


He'll Be Just What I Need

by Catchclaw



Series: Stray No More [4]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Knotting, M/M, Misha's Wisdom/BS, Mpreg is possible in this world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:45:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jen can't have Jay, damn it. He's sure of it. So why can't he just take what he can get? What Misha's willing to give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He'll Be Just What I Need

You make it through the goddamn scene. Somehow.

You run it four times for coverage: first him, then you, then him again. And you.

You're angry, out somewhere past beyond, and you're damn lucky that works here. That your snarl and the flick of fear it brings up in Jay's eyes don't seem out of place.

But as soon as Singer yells cut, print it once and for fucking all, you're gone, a barncoated blur across the stage and out the freaking door.

You get to your trailer and you stay.

They've got at least three more set-ups for you to shoot today, but you don't give a damn.

You stay.

You never pull diva shit like this. Never. Because you've been on the receiving end and it sucks.

You swore more to yourself than anyone else that you'd never be that guy, the one who expects the world to grind to a halt at his feet.

You swore a lot of things, though, and this isn't the first one to fall.

At first, you're so pissed that you can't move, can't see past your own nose. You're all wrapped up inside Jay's spell, your clothes--Dean's--heavy with Laffy Taffy, with Skittles and gummy bears. The kind of sweet that rots your teeth. That's Jay. That's what he's doing to you. Rotting you from the inside out.

Because damn if the smell doesn't make your knot twitch. 

Your pulse leap. 

Your cock say _now yes now you must_ \--

You've torn your shirt before you realize. Ripped your jeans over your hips, flung Dean's boots against the wall. 

You can't be here anymore. You can't. You can't.

Your brain picks it up like a chant-- _you can't you can't you can't_ \--and you cling to it, tight, and reach out for the Zen.

Misha's always telling you how easy it is to find, the Zen, that place inside your head where everything goes white and cool, where thoughts disappear and you become ephemeral, like a ghost or a breeze or a squirrel.

"A squirrel?" you remember squinting.

"Ah," Mish had said, turning over and showing his face to the sky. "Squirrels have secrets, Jen. They're nature's 007s."

You shake him out of your head and get dressed as yourself again. 

You grab your keys and make a break for it, bolting for the lot like you really are invisible, that your anger and ache aren't riding you like a dragon. That you're not the most visible thing for miles.

Jensen Ackles: being an ass.

Jensen Ackles: losing his shit.

Jensen Ackles: letting everybody down. Especially himself.

Nobody catches you. Nobody stops. So you run.

You're halfway home when Misha calls.

"I told everyone you were sick," he says.

You snort. "Did they buy it?"

"Coming from me? Of course not. But it's what they all wanted to hear."

The car in front of you taps the brakes for no damn reason at all.

"Fuck!" you bark, banging on yours.

"That would probably help, yes," he says, dry as ice.

You make a noise that's not a growl. You swear.

"Jen--" he starts.

You cut into your driveway, finally, and turn the fucking key. Let your head hit your hands. The wheel. "Not now, Mish. Please. Not now. Don't wanna talk about it."

He's quiet for a minute. Breathes soft and steady in your ear.

"Jen," he says again. Ready. "Do you want me to come over?"

You let that sit for a second. Let it rest inside your head.

Try to keep there. Try to put your knot on mute.

It'd be easier with Misha. It'd be safe. It'd be like it's been before: simple. He'll give, you'll take, and you'll keep your eyes closed when he leaves so you can't see just how much of himself he's willing to hand over. How much he's dying for you to ask for more.

He's so serious when you fuck. So intense. So focused on you, on being right for you, that you can feel it for days after. How much he cares.

How much he wants you to.

But you don't. Not the way he thinks you should. But that hasn't kept you from taking, when it gets too dark in your own little world to see. Hasn't kept you from leaning over more than once when he's broadcasting his wisdom to the world and sliding easy, quick under his tongue. 

It's not love, for you, not even close. Just a friend who's warm and willing, a little too gentle and flexible as hell. A friend who knows that you're in love with somebody else but lets it go, lets it fly when he's in your bed.

He wants you.

No shit.

It's knowledge you use when you have to. When you need. When there's no one else to give.

And fuck, he's giving. To a fault. And you? You've always been ready to take.

But now? Being on the other end of the scale. Loving somebody who doesn't love you? 

Worse.

Fucking somebody who doesn't love you. Having him all to yourself and pretending, right then, that you're all he wants. Even though you know it's not true.

Yeah. Now you can see.

How cruel you've been to Misha. How cold. Even when you fuck, when you stroke his face in time with your hips, lap at his throat and sigh and bite kisses into his skin until he curses in Russian and comes, his mouth loose and wet under your own.

Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with you? He wants you. Hell, he _loves_ you, this beautiful beta with an open-minded alpha who's willing to take whatever scraps of affection you throw his way, and he's your friend, damn it, the best one you've got left and why isn't that enough for you? Why? Why not?

You want to say yes. You do. You should.

But then you shift in the seat, put your fingers on the handle, and you see Jay inside your head. Pinned to his mark by your stare. Someone else's bruises on his neck and a smell that's not yours on his hands and fuck. Fuck.

You can't.

"I can't," you say, your eyes squeezed shut. Tight. "Thanks, man. But. I can't."

"Ok," he grits, quick. "Ok."

You kick open the door and plod up the sidewalk. Fury and want and fuck gone cold. Heavy in your chest.

Sleep. Maybe you just need to sleep.

For a couple of years. At least.

"Is everybody pissed at me?" you ask. Selfish to the end.

He sighs over the static. "Yeah. Pretty much. I think Singer's building a voodoo doll. He yelled at Jay pretty good, too. Sent 'em home."

"Awesome," you say, stumbling into the house. "Fucking great, Mish. I am a goddamn ass."

He laughs, and you can't help but notice it's the fake one, the one he uses with reporters that aren't worth his time. With overeager fans.

"No argument here," he says, way too bright. "Let it be taken down, sir, that you are an ass."

You kick off your shoes and head for the bourbon. Grumble: "Don't quote Shakespeare at me, asshole."

He ignores the bait and says "Goodbye, Jen." Simple.

The dial tone's in your ear before you catch that, and you stand there for a second, stunned.

Well. Well ok then.

You take the bottle to the couch and you stay.

Drop the phone on the carpet. Push a pillow over your eyes.

You're alone.

And you stay.

**

In your dreams, the doorbell rings. But you can't bring yourself to answer the call.


End file.
